Myself And I

there is a garden

in a northen shire

where I can sit and watch

the nibble-nosed hares

and the clouds and trees and birds

and yes the bees

–

where I can listen

to the shush of tree winds

and the bark of pheasants

and the leaky tricklebank stream

–

where I can breathe the air pure

of not city

and smell the scent sweet

of not people

and be the me of me

without the turmoil

that I make for myself

when I am not

by myself

–

then the roiling anger comes

of not being able to simply

stay there

in a garden

in a northern shire

with the me of me

and myself

and I